I saw a baby picture of myself the other day
Not much has changed
I was smaller back then
less hair, quite a deal
shorter
But most things seem the same
Same piercing green eyes
even as a baby
they never were blue
like normal babies have
Same long pale fingers
itching for keys to press
A defined widow's peak
with tufts of ginger curling around it
And a glowing mysterious smile
that my parents' friends swooned over
even without teeth
The constants vary though
My eyes are pillowed by exhaustion
my fingers are chipped at the ends
I am too busy to push back
my long red hair and expose
my widow's peak once more

Something about that picture puzzled me
something different
when I looked into the mirror
at night while brushing my teeth
examining my pores
scrubbing away my eyeliner
and crawled into bed

and staring up at the cracks in the ceiling
it hit me.

Smiling.
I don't do too much of that anymore.

In other words, I was
an extraordinary child
that grew up to be
quite ordinary.

a stripe of asphalt on the blanket of green

I stare wordlessly out into other people's lives
peeking past the violet-tinted windows of the freeway
as your chat-chatter spills from your coffee cup
filled to the brim with handshakes and impatience

You clutch your earpiece tighter, scowling
as I trace the horizon across the glass
smudgy fingertips that sigh boredom

and the Mexican workers in orange vests
peer back at me curious and wave
turn to their left and shout something in Spanish
tongues dancing, slick with dust

I smile as they crumple their lunch sacks and
pitch them down into the rubble then hoist
brick by brick, stone by stone
no natural-made boundary
into the chalky air and perch for a while
to mop the sweat from their brown
creased faces and sing rowdily to their neighbors
and the immobile in the SUVs

You lock the doors fast
and pat your hair into place
I've got no time for this construction
you say, can't they build this highway somewhere else?
as you drum your fingers along to the siren song
of CEOs and business connections

You're just the same as the rest of them.
Man forever building bridges
that will only topple down.

The waves slither over the rocks and wink
    cutting into the soles of our flesh
    whispering sweet nothings to the porcelain of skin
Our feet are not used to treading without shoes
    and we’ll walk the waters
    stalk the waters like panthers to their prey
carefully calculating where to strike next
so our toes can skim the surface without dousing ourselves in doubt

The velvet starlessly undulates like serpents overhead
    nipping playfully at our ankles
    hissing fog over the cross-stitching below
Our toes giggle and ease on our slippers of cold
    and we’ll shift the waters,
    sift the waters of their impurities and artifice
leaving the ingredients of ginger, sand, and freckles
so we can remember the recipe for when we grow older

A melody fits between the stones
    caterwauling over the wail of the winds
    humming through the salt and silt
Our laughter clicks like puzzle pieces
    and we’ll see the waters,
    be the water’s song resounding in low octaves
echoing inside the memories framed
so our tongues will never forget what to sing to get out of trouble

A beacon slices the shore with dancing lights
    twirling between the universe and words
    supping on the whip of the sea against rock
Our eyes well with the tears of de Leon
    and we’ll feel the waters,
    steal the waters back to our hearths in tiny blue bottles
watching them swirl around inside the glass
so our fists can hold resolute to the green light unattainable

You say I don’t need a poem
to capture the day in a frame and tuck it
beneath my pillow
But I’d like to have it there in case I forget
the way the armadillo on the side of the road
lay belly up, beer bottle in paw
a redneck's respects for the deceased

or the feeling of three in the morning
pounding in my skull, soaking in memories
trivia pursued and articles of obfuscation: the elucidation of the world
seen through bottle-green binoculars and heard
through the neighbor's windchimes ringing out diminished sevenths
and questions I don't want to answer
or even ask out loud

I want to tuck it in my wallet
for times that I can't remember your faces
or the scent of your shampoo, or the order of keychains
on your keyring, or the times we drove to East Jesus Nowhere
and you ripped the leaves from my calendar, ticking
and turning my seasons by the mile markers in the cement

I do this to engrave it in my cerebrum
the nights we ran outside in our pajamas in the rain
and danced for a while, then danced some more,
turning and leaping and spinning and reaching
and falling down to weep for no reason
mourning the morning
among the sharpened blades of grass

You laughed at me once
remember that? how you scoffed and snatched
my paper from my spiral and stuffed it in the trash can
telling me not to write fiction in history class
but it's just as much history as every other Jefferson
another amendment you'll never read

But I forgive you. you're not the first
to tell me to get my feet out of the clouds
because my head's already gone too far for saving
or to attempt to stifle my addiction to
the scratch of pen on paper
the scent of ink on tree
the pulse of blood in my brain

I cling to syntax like religion
keeping the words pinched in my fists like pixie dust
hoping if I say the right abracadabra
the pen will turn to a wand
and I can paint you the details
one day at a time

Driving down the freeway with my Gaga glasses on,
radio cranked all the way.Too tired to headbang,
so I compensate by belting (entirely too loudly) the lyrics to Nickelback
at a stoplight. It's curious how, though we are maybe four feet apart,
I can hear me, and the blonde 20-something beside me can't.
Through the rolled-up windows, maybe she just thinks I'm talking to myself
because I'm lonely. I crack the window just a bit
and scream until the light turns green.

These hands are weak.
They bend and flex, they slip from grip,
they pinch the tip of their Sonic straw.
They sing sonatas in the wrong key.
They rip the stories I cannot write.
They break things.
They make typos, they grab for seconds,
and cannot reach that last black key,
no matter what I coax them with to do so.
Sometimes they get so angry they leave bite marks on my palms.
They burn my toast.
They test my bathwater in the winter.
They sweep the dust off of photo albums.
They turn the lock to secret compartments.
They paint things, they mend things,
they dance on top of my classroom desk.
They know all the right spellings,
and just the right way to turn photos into pixie dust.
Sometimes they transform into swans before my very eyes.
They sing the stories I cannot tell.
They can start a revolution.
These hands are strong.
And they are yours to hold.

Compiled of all the parts
No one wishes to have
Fiery ropes that refuse to rest
Spidery fingers that worry too much
Freckles etching countless constellations undiscovered
Eyelashes that a cactus wouldn't be proud of
Emerald eyes, woeful, or so I've been told,
that reflect all the unsung symphonies of the past
and of the yet to come
Long, awkward torso that curves in all the wrong places
Skin paler and mire transparent than the surface of a pond
Dancer's thighs with an octogenarian's knees
The smile of a Chinese ten-year-old
paired with the beak of a toucan.
That, at least, is good for something:
Sniffing out your lies and following them
through the thick blue veins that map
straight to my heart.